THERE WAS WATER between this spot and the camp, a small spring which started boldly from beneath the shelter of a flat moss-encrusted boulder, only to be re-swallowed by the too eager ground before it could form a stream. Montana had scooped out a hollow and filled a can when making camp. Now he used his hat, then carried it back to where the other man lay after he had stumbled and gone down, making no further move. But he groaned as Montana knelt and raised him, putting the water to his lips. He choked, eyes opening to gaze wildly, then he drank eagerly.
A certain calmness replaced the startled look. His gaze quested the night, not as a hunter’s but almost with a child’s curiosity at sight of something new and strange. He looked carefully at Montana, clarity driving out the fog. He sighed as he lay back.
“That beats any whiskey I ever tasted,” he whispered. “You’re Montana Abbott.”
It was a statement rather than a question, and an answer to another. Clearly he was one of the outlaws, a man who had seen Abbott in Helena, so that he would know him on the trail.
“They left me to die,” he gasped. Hatred twisted his face, an ugly mask at their callous desertion in his time of need. Then his expression changed to one of self-mockery. “But why not? Likely I’d have done the same—a bigger share for the rest.”
His eyes were momentarily vacant. With an effort he brought himself back to reality.
“Reckon you’ve earned something,” he muttered. “So I’ll tell …”
He was still staring, perhaps on a farther scene than his eyes had beheld heretofore. Shaking his head, Montana turned back. The outlaw had had the will to reveal something which might have been helpful, even important, but a guess would have to suffice. The surprising part was that he had gotten as far as he had, or lived so long, with a mortal wound.
Montana awoke at daylight, not waiting for the sentry on duty to arouse him. Frost covered the more exposed spots away from the trees, its sharpness making the air brisk. Unheeding, a bird chorus resounded from the edge of a meadow. Minster, arrogance etched in the harsh planes of his face, was gathering dry twigs and branches for a fire. LaVoie was tugging on a boot. He swore in irritation, jerking it off to shake out a beetle. Montana went after water.
The others were astir, still sleepy or shivering, when he returned. The water served as an excuse.
“There’s a dead man beyond the spring,” he reported. “He’d been shot; then apparently he managed to get that far.”
Interest and a certain horror showed in some faces, but had there been any room for doubt, the surprise of the bogus Vigilantes erased it. They were anxious to see, to satisfy themselves that the now stiff corpse had been past speaking for a good many hours. Such wordless concern, followed by not quite hidden relief, was as revealing as it was disquieting. A cutthroat crew who would leave one of their own to die were not merely as dangerous as a nest of rattlesnakes, but some degrees lower on the scale of treachery. A rattler at least warned before striking.
Mike Molloy was still alive, not having regained consciousness. That might be from the gunshot wound, though Montana suspected that he might have fallen or taken a blow on the skull, in addition. Molly was not certain. The moment of strife when they had been set upon had been too fast and full of fury.
There was a reasonable chance that the concussion would wear off. Meanwhile, it could be helpful. Montana made another examination and gave his opinion.
“That bullet has to come out, if he’s to stand any chance. Near as I can tell, it’s not too deeply embedded, and getting it out may not be too hard—especially while he remains unconscious.”
Molly’s eyes were large with question and supplication.
“Could you manage, do you think, my dear?”
Montana nodded. “I’ve done it before,” he acknowledged. “Nothing like trying. While that’s being done, some of you can bury that other man. It’s the least we can do for him.”
Cleansing his knife blade in hot water, Montana conferred with Sinbad.
“I’d like to have you handy to assist, just in case.” He added in a lower tone, sharply, “And keep a good watch—especially when that burial squad comes back. Again, just in case.”
No change of tone or expression betrayed Sinbad’s thoughts. His nod was matter-of-fact.
“I sure enjoy hearing those larks sing on a morning like this. Beats gunsong.”
The operation proved as simple and almost as easy as Montana had hoped. The .45 slug had passed almost through Molloy, but had missed any bones or arteries, lodging near a shoulder-bone in his back, not breaking the skin. It formed a hard lump, a bulge easily seen and felt. Molloy groaned, stirring as Montana probed, but he did not rouse fully.
With the bullet out and the wound cleansed and bandaged, nothing more could be done for the present. As with all gunshot wounds which were not instantly fatal, a lot depended on luck. Montana knew of no better word for it. Some wounds healed quickly, with few complications. Others reddened and festered, the victims growing feverish. When that happened, few survived.
Molly had given such assistance as he had required. She was white-faced but composed, her intent gaze shifting from her brother’s face to Montana’s and back. Applications of a comb and water had altered her appearance. As he had suspected, she was by way of being a beauty. A trace of color returned to the cheeks of both Molloys as the job was completed.
“Sure, and I can never properly thank you,” she breathed. “Now—he has a chance?”
“Considering that he’s lived this long, I’d say he has a pretty good one,” Montana agreed. “What do you want to do?”
The answer to that had been troubling him more than the certainty that the six who had joined their company as ostensible guardians intended to remain, leech-like, and, carrying the simile further, to suck the blood from them before departure. Montana had made no acknowledgement that some of the packs contained gold, but everyone knew.
The same question was almost as perplexing for Molly. Until the night before, he had been the protector, making necessary decisions. Now those suddenly devolved upon her, and though daylight had followed darkness, it had brought no solution.
“You are bound for Fort Benton?” she asked.
Montana nodded. “There is a river boat there now. We want to catch it before it heads back downstream.”
“I know about the boat,” Molly agreed. “We would like to be on board also. I know that is asking a lot, under the circumstances, but it’s pretty important—”
She broke off, her eyes asking a question. Abbott nodded.
“You’re wondering if Mike can stand such a journey. Well, traveling won’t do him any good—but we can’t stay here, and neither can you. At least the bullet won’t be rubbing and hurting.”
“We’ll be still deeper in your debt,” she breathed. A sparkle came briefly to eyes accustomed to smiling. “ ’Tis a broth of a man ye are to take the bother of us at such a time, Montana. We’ll try to be no more of a burden than can be helped.”
The others were returning. From Molly’s look, Montana knew that, like himself, she suspected them of being the bandits who had attacked during the night. But they had gone masked, and with the night and the confusion, certainty was impossible. Even if they could be sure, that would only precipitate a crisis. With both groups possessing about even strength, neither seemed anxious to rush matters.
As pretended Vigilantes, Curtis and his crew showed no indication of withdrawing their proffered protection. There was nothing to do but go on, constantly alert. Montana had counted on a four-day trip.
Now, with a wounded man, they would be forced to travel more slowly. The boat was supposed to remain at Benton for several days, so the great need for haste, now their secret was known, was past. Somewhere along the way, there would almost certainly be a showdown, but he doubted that the outlaws were in any great hurry. They would await what seemed a favorable moment.
And the same goes for me, Montana reflected as they got under way. Distastefully he pondered the possibilities. These men, as their night’s work seemed to prove, belonged in the pattern of the Innocents, whether or not they had any real link with those pioneers in territorial crime. The custom of the Innocents, almost without exception, had been to get into some such position, if possible to serve as trusted partners, or at least as guards; then, suddenly and treacherously, to strike, sparing no one.
These six would probably follow that method, if they could manage it. So they deserved to be exterminated with equal ruthlessness; and such a method might be not only the best but indeed the only way to insure his own survival and that of the others. The trouble with such a solution was that honest men must of necessity be above such foulness.
He had pretty well dismissed the likelihood that the outlaws might make use of the more leisurely journey to send for reinforcements before making their attempt on the gold. The callousness with which they had left one of their own to die was revealing. The fewer who were around to share the booty, the better.
And if they should manage to get it, then they’ll be at one another’s throats like starving wolves before it comes to spending it, he decided. But I’ll do well not to belittle them. Curtis is showing restraint, and they may be almost as smart as they think they are.
Another thought was disturbing. With Mike Malloy so badly off, and Molly the only woman in the party, the Molloys were virtual hostages, and the lawless bunch might work to make them actively so. That would be a shrewd move, one which must be guarded against.
At the outset of the day, Fat Dolan rode, holding Mike in front of him, cradling him in mighty arms as though he had been a child. Molly rode alongside, watching anxiously. Montana, the road being easy to follow, brought up the rear. From there, hopefully, he could keep an eye on the others, with no one behind him.
But there would be a thousand hills, along with countless boulders, coulees and patches of brush, all of which would offer chances for some to slide from sight, to pick a hiding place and start shooting. To remain alert was the price of survival, but there would be moments of carelessness or relaxation. The flight of a bird, a running coyote or rabbit, could prove a fatal distraction.
I could get the drop on Curtis and his men, tie them in their saddles, and start them back, Montana reflected, but dismissed the idea. That would leave the others doubly vengeful, and the temporary gain would soon be lost.
Mike Malloy was struggling back to consciousness, the concussion slowly wearing off. He looked around dazedly, then seemed to doze in fitful snatches as the ride continued. His injury, though painful, appeared not to bother him over-much.
Curtis had altered as startlingly as an emerging butterfly. With his men, he was helpful, exerting himself to be pleasant, accepting Montana’s leadership without question. Sooner or later, it would have an effect, allaying suspicion, precisely as they intended.
The horses snorted suspiciously, and a grizzly bear eyed their passing with lazy indifference. A little farther on, magpies circled and quarreled above a kill where it had feasted, which explained its good nature. The day was increasingly warm.
An earlier wheel trace had become a road, gouged and rutted. It ran from Fort Benton to Sun River, and then on to Last Chance. The previous summer had seen it become a well-beaten track, with freight wagons, drawn by jerkline teams, doing a big business against the leanness of winter at the gold camps.
Save for themselves it was deserted, but that would change as more freight was unloaded from the boats.
They moved through a wide open country, toiling toward the divide. From its crest the world ran wide and empty. Now they dipped toward easier country, and the Missouri was a distant gleam.
Half the distance had been covered, and no move had been made; there had been no sign of hostility. But this brought no ease of mind. The robbers might prefer to put a lot of distance between Helena and others of their ilk, to make their strike not far short of the head of navigation; if successful, they could then embark on the waiting river boat, dropping down to St. Louis with money in their pockets and the outraged citizenry far behind and out of reach.